


Dear God, Why Him

by dawngloaming



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (except it's just that Jack struggles with how his masculinity is perceived), (only referenced and in past tense), (they both are...it's catholic school), Ableism, Ableist Language, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anxiety, Autism Spectrum, Batjokes, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Blasphemy, Canon-Typical Ableism, Catholic School, Catholicism, Class Differences, Class Issues, Closeted Character, Crisis of Faith, Crossdressing, Depression, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gang Violence, Gay Joker, Gender Issues, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Jack is not Joker, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, POV Bruce Wayne, POV First Person, POV Jack Napier, POV Joker (DCU), POV Multiple, Poverty, Religious Guilt, Roman Catholicism, Roommates, Self-Acceptance, Slow Burn, Slurs, Social Issues, Swearing, The Rogues (DCU) Mentioned, but he retains some aspects, everyone is an adult btw, internalized ableism, they're both Catholic...at least culturally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2020-08-20 12:16:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawngloaming/pseuds/dawngloaming
Summary: Bruce Wayne is attending a private, Catholic university, and his roommate....well, he is far more than he ever bargained for. Jack Napier makes him wonder, in multiple ways and on multiple occasions..."Dear, God, why him?" Meanwhile, Jack feels the exact same. The two young men must navigate their growing relationship, which forces them to each confront their identities: their faiths, sexualities, traumas...every facet.Multi-chapter!





	1. A Rocky Start

**Author's Note:**

> This is informed by my personal experience in Catholic school...except I made it Catholic college, because I want these boys to be ADULTS, duh. This won't be condemning Catholicism. But it will simply explore issues I've personally dealt with, regarding religious pain. 
> 
> Fun fact: Everything is set before my fic, Napier and the Billionaire. 
> 
> Btw, Jack might come off pretty damn testy, but he has his reasons...I mean, ya wanna know how he got those scars? Don't worry though, he's gonna soften up. The story won't be terribly angsty, but there will be talk of various traumas. But trust me, they'll be grown through, and healing is gonna take place!
> 
> Both Bruce and Jack are on the autism spectrum, btw.

//Bruce POV//

Alfred pulls up to the gates at a painfully slow pace. He’s stalling, reminding me all the while that I can call at any time if I “need a chat”. He says that just because I’ll be in college, and just because he’ll be moving back in with family in England, doesn’t mean he’s no longer here for me. 

He catches my eye in the mirror and gives a sad smile. He’s reminding me that I AM his family, as much or even more so than the assorted relatives of his home country. I’m the closest thing to a son that he’ll ever get. 

I reach over from the backseat, where I’ve stretched out for the long ride, and give his shoulder a squeeze. I mean, I feel the same about him. Sometimes I catch myself thinking of him as a father…as guilty as that makes me feel, considering that my real father is dead.

Once we park, I clamber out on stiff legs and turn back to flash the brightest smile I can muster, though my throat is choking up with what MIGHT be sorrow. Or some weird allergies. We ARE in the countryside after all, and there’s a shit-ton of pollen billowing off these trees in August. 

But anyway, I’m just trying to reassure Alfred that of course I’ll remember to stay in touch…in between all the wild frat parties. That part is just a joke. He KNOWS I’m easily drained by social activity. 

I grab my singular, hulking suitcase out of the trunk, and despite the size, it isn’t too heavy to handle alone. After all, my wardrobe is pretty damn minimalist…a modest selection of interchangeable and practical clothing. Mostly in black.

Alfred starts getting out to help me, but I quickly wave him back in, explaining that I’m at least trying not to call attention to myself. Having your personal butler escort you onto campus is just… too damn showy. Not the image I’m trying to push. I want to make friends with a variety of folks. Not just with other rich pricks with that damn gelled hairstyle even I’m guilty of sporting.

But really, attracting a natural little clique of buddies is difficult enough to accomplish, with a family name that clings to me like expensive cologne. Not to mention the fact that I’m forced to walk around with this damn face. No one ever bothered to keep it out of the various editorials and tabloids. 

Alfred understands my rationale for brushing him off, thank God. He even gets back into the driver’s seat with a chuckle, after which I throw him one last wave goodbye.The car finally drives off with a purr, and then I’m truly alone. 

Well, I’m alone, but only so to speak. It’s how I FEEL, even though (or perhaps because?) so many other young faces bloom out of the crowd that pushes past me. The jostling comes with a few knowing glances my way, but within seconds they all turn back to squinting at their printed-out campus maps. 

I thought it would be odd to attend a regular school where not everyone was a celebrity. I figured I’d find it to be isolating and overstimulating at the same time. But it seems that everyone is absorbed in their own young-adult anxiety. It hums off the throngs like the summer heat rising from the pavement. 

My personal anxiety is over meeting my roommate. All I know is his name: Jack Napier. I don’t know what exactly I’m worried about, regarding him. But it’s still making me sweat more than seasonal New York heat. 

Whatever, I’ll be sweating even more if I don’t just get this over with and haul my stuff up to my new (and not very humble) abode. I’m on the top floor. The floor with the best view, or so I’ve heard. I AM curious about that, I guess. It’s the pride of every kid who can afford to pay extra…and the merit scholarship kids. 

Aside from the view, the other perks of a top floor room are that you get a personal kitchen and everything. Well, personal as in shared by two. That’ll be Jack and I. Alfred wouldn’t let me get a “singles” dorm. He’s afraid I’ll become some sort of hermit…he thinks I. already “brood” too much. Aaaand complain too much when I have to go out to soirees and socialite parties alike. And so? Now I’m stuck with whoever Jack is. 

Even as I drift deeper into the murky pool of stress, I notice the blur in my peripheral vision, moving up unsteadily at my right side. I turn around a little and see someone teetering around with a huge vintage leather suitcase (the heavy kind) hoisted in front of his face, clutched in bony white knuckles. 

I know he’s a guy because he’s dressed the same as me. Every boy at this school is, it’s a uniform… the typical preppy threads of an academic: belted chinos in khaki, long white socks peeking out of dark brown oxfords, a navy cardigan buttoned over a white shirt, and a little burgundy tie peeking out. The girls wear the exact same, but with a sexist, mandatory skirt instead of pants. 

The guy is still teetering, only now, he looks like he’s about to fall over! Geez. Well, being nice helps you make friends right? And being helpful is being nice, right? So, I set my own bag down at the top of the stairwell (which I’ve finally reached, thank God)… and grab his bag right out of his hands. With a bit of effort, I swing the handle over my shoulder, and extend the rolling handle of my own suitcase with my other hand. 

“Where’s your dorm?” I ask, in what I hope is a friendly tone. I’ve been told that my naturally monotonous voice is off-putting, so I try my best to add some Wayne Charm. He just stares up at me with these wide green eyes from two steps down, face quickly flushing from near-white to a blotchy red. 

Ouch, I didn’t mean to embarrass him. His sudden blush does make sense, though, given the tints of natural red in his brown hair. Well, it’s more of a chestnut color, than a brown. It hangs in disorganized waves and flyaways, draped about his lightly freckled face in an asymmetrical sort of bob. 

Now that I’ve (rudely, I guess?) snatched his bag away from his face, I can actually see who I’ve just helped. Or tried to help, rather. His face is as thin as the rest of his body, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose that make him look like an altogether sharp person. Sharp as those watchful, skittish, prideful eyes, ringed in purple from a lack of sleep (I’d assume). 

His lips though…those look…soft enough. Not that their possible softness is at all relevant! I’m just…just making observations, ok? And in any case, what’s more interesting is that there are pale pink scars on his face… extending a ridged smile across that twitchy, frowning mouth. I’m not even gonna bother wondering about those, though. Poor kid probably gets enough people prying into his life’s story, with a face like that. 

More importantly: He hasn’t answered my question about where he’s dorming. But…he seems to be…shaking? I feel increasingly as if I’ve made the wrong decision. I mean, do guys even help other guys with their luggage? Is that fucking weird?? God, who do I think I am? But just two seconds ago, he looked like he was about to topple over and crack his skull open, dammit! I couldn’t just allow that. 

Whether or not I’m a good Samaritan doesn’t matter, though. Because now his hands are clasped over his mouth and he’s making this sound…and well…it sure SEEMS like stifled laughter. But his sparse eyebrows are knitting together and he doesn’t seem too happy at all, so I suppose it’s the nervous variety? Maybe I should’ve kept my hands to myself….aaand my eyes. 

I MIGHT have been staring. A little. So to smooth things over, I try and smile in a reassuring way…but maybe it comes off snarky as hell. It must have, because before I know it, I’m staring cross-eyed at the point of a fucking knife. That escalated quickly. 

One of those trembling, clasped hands had dropped into his pocket at some point…and is now brandishing a fucking rainbow-iridescent switchblade in my face! What the hell! The kid is still giggling breathlessly, and I’m kinda REALLY freaked out by it. But his face looks like a grimace of fear, not malice, even as he rattles off some tough-guy warning. “I don’t care WHO you are, you do NOT get to mess with me,” he breathes out, in the accent associated with Gotham’s lower class. And like any sane person, I drop his bag as gently as I can and then proceed to poorly cover up my sudden panic.

“Hoooly shit. Hey man, I’m really really sorry, just please put down the knife,” I choke out, words running together. And maybe this was…a bit loud. And shrill. Yikes. Because, suddenly? The kid is turning with wide eyes to find a hand on his shoulder. Some teacher or someone has managed to catch up to us. “Principal’s office, now” she says in a firm tone. 

The dude drops his knife into her outstretched hand, and his frightened, aggressive expression turns frantic. The woman, however, turns to me with the utmost concern and asks, “Are you alright Mr. Wayne?” Of course, I’m still stunned, so I just nod…and quickly, she begins carting the guy away. Which causes me to snap out of my stupor, since…as startled as I am, I startled him first. 

And most importantly, when I hear her asking his name, the grumbled answer is one I doubt belongs to anyone else…except the very boy I was dreading to see. It’s none other than JACK NAPIER. Jack fucking NAPIER. Do you think I wanna start off on the wrong foot with my damn roommate, for God’s sake?! Hell no. 

I make a snap-decision to run after the two (and forget about my luggage..and his). But upon catching up to them, I can’t do anything but babble that: “Wait! Ma’am, it was my fault! I touched his stuff like a total creep, he probably thought It was stealing, or teasing him or something. But I was only trying to help! I’m sure he was fine carrying his own bags, but I just HAD to play hero, didn’t I? You’re not gonna give him detention on the first day are you?! If anything, I should be the one in there!” 

The woman stares down at me in shock through thick black frames. “Mr. Wayne…I’m not sure what’s going on, but our school has a zero violence, zero weapons policy,” she starts, still stern…but then trails off, eyes looking to the side nervously. I use her pause as an opening and butt in that, “He’s my roommate! I’m supposed to be in the same dorm as Jack Napier, and that’s him!“ 

She blinks rapidly and starts saying, "Well we can just get you another one,” but I cut her off. “I am NOT depriving him of a loft room and causing him more trouble than I already have. I made a dumb move and I won’t let you punish him for it.” Jack looks like a deer in the headlights. The woman simply gives me a tight-lipped look and squints, sighing out a resigned, “If that’s what you want, Mr. Wayne. We’re honored to have you here.” With that, Jack is pretty much just pushed at me, and then she’s gone.

That leaves me face to face with Jack, who now sports the, “I recognize you,” face. Except, it’s combined with a cringe. Whether from nerves, or disgust, or remorse…I’m not certain. But his hand is out and he’s saying, "Nice to meet you…Brucie.”

His tone is sardonic as hell, but I shake it off. I even shake his hand, despite being put off by the sudden nickname’s pantomime of familiarity. His handshake is surprisingly firm. Especially for someone with such thin fingers, the long and flexible variety befitting of a pianist. 

When he speaks again, it's with a laughing tone. Like...a genuine laugh, this time. Not some breathless, nervous giggle. 

“So…that was a mistake, you know that right? I JUST threatened to stab you. And yet you HELPED me… So I could STAY in your room??" 

The question is a reasonable one. I mean, I'm really wondering what I've gotten myself into. But I feel...somehow drawn to him. I don't know... feel like...he makes perfect sense as my roommate. Somehow. It sort of feel like it had to be him. Beats me as to WHY it feels that way, though. Against all reason, I suddenly trust the guy.

Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Myself in particular. And dear God...if you're listening...I have got to ask...why? Why him?


	2. A Rocky Start: Jack's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's take on the scene from chapter one! Mind you, my Jack curses a lot, because he's a very (understandably given his upbrining) angry and defensive young man. He's also big on BLASPHEMY and has a TON of internalized homophobia. So there WILL be slurs. But mind you, all this shit is based on my own experiences as a lesbian in catholic school. Believe me, I'm not trying to be a douche.
> 
> OH and warning: Jack also has some internalized ableism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's thoughts are way louder and buzzier than Bruce's. He monologues a TON in his head. Bruce is comparatively short with words both internally and externally. Though even more so, externally.

Chap 2, Jack POV  
“Jack. Hey, Jack. Look at me. This school is crawling with rich assholes, got it? Don’t you ever forget it. You’re not one of em. Just because you’re leaving us behind in the Narrows, doesn’t mean you’re leaving behind cruelty….life’s a bitch….but you still don’t wanna be everyone else’s lil bitch though, ya know? Don’t let no boys touch you again, got it? Show em who’s boss. But preferably. Stay outta damn trouble before it gets to that point.”

Fuck...there he goes again. My father’s just going off about how I better not be such a lil pussy again, and ohhh the bougie university is gonna just be pure HELL or whatever. As if I haven’t heard this a million times. It’s almost as if he doesn’t actually want me to go to college. Weeeell, I’m sure he DOES wish I’d just join him in the butcher’s shop. 

But he knows Ma wants me to go to school. She’s the one who's saved up for me...taking money out of her cleaning-lady paychecks for years! Just so I’d have at least a smidgen of my tuition funded by her...a sliver of hope for a REAL future outside of Gotham, carved out by her. Because that’s what good parents fuckin DO! They’re supposed to PREPARE. Prepare, so that their child will have any number of choices at their disposal, when the time comes to pick a path. 

But my father, like many others, always wanted a Worthy Heir of his legacy...which like many others, he lacks. He doesn’t HAVE a legacy, he’s just an average working class butcher. But he would still like a little clone to play ball with, take to the strip club...or whatever the fuck straight father’s wanna do with their equally straight sons. Thing is, my interests and aptitudes point more towards the arena of the MIND and the HEART. Which nearly bores HIM and his hands-on, oh-so-manly sensibilities to tears. Or...it would, if he even COULD shed a single tear. Which he can’t, cuz he’s not a, quote, “lil bitch” like me! Hah! Haha.

The only thing he’s getting out of driving me to uni is the knowledge that he is appeasing my mother. He DOES kinda love her, I guess. She’s busy at work today and can’t take time off, (unlike my dad, she doesn’t OWN her cleaning service). 

And well, I suppose that his OTHER incentive is his absurd hope that maybe...just MAYBE... the CATHOLIC school will knock some sense (read: heterosexuality) into me! Jesus, it would be kinda nice if it worked though, not gonna lie. I’m too TIRED to be gay, I just want a life where no one BOTHERS me. The nuns or whoever the fuck can knock themselves out trying. 

Anyway, Pops isn’t even a real Catholic. He’s baptized, but he doesn’t care about the faith the way Ma does. He’s just a homophobe. And yeeeah, Ma also has equally high hopes for my miraculous turnaround. I mean of course, she wants grandkids made the good ol fashioned way! But! But but but! At LEAST she ultimately wants me to do well in life, for my own sake. 

She wants me to build a good life almost as much as she wants me to move towards God, that one consistent anchor in her unsteady life of poverty. Ma’s a certified addict to the eucharist, this particular drug...this opiate of the masses, to quote Marx. It keeps her too blissed out to see that dad’s right, life’s a bitch.

If you have both your eyes closed to pray, you can’t keep one eye open to watch your back. God sure won’t watch it for you, so you better do it yourself. If I had Jesus as my invisible bestie, would I have been safe from everything that’s happened to me? If I only prayed enough, would my dear old peers finally like me? Nope! 

I’d still be left bleeding in a corner, because other fiiine young men? Weeeell...they don’t exactly like fags. But God’s the one who MADE me a fag, so do you see the issue? Basically, God wrote “punching bag” in my stars. Sooo like...he could suck it. If he were real.

But who caaaares if it’s a stupid Catholic school. I can say a couple goddamn Hail Marys. I got a merit scholarship for being a chemistry whiz. I’m Charlie, I got my golden ticket, and I’m about to enter the chocolate factory. I've. Left. Fucking. Gotham. HELL yeah. Or should I say, HEAVEN yeah. Hah. 

We’ve finally parked in front of those grand, flung-back gates of gold. Dad’s telling me to get out already. Now that he’s done berating me, he’s quick and to the point. Which serves me just fine, seeing as I never responded to him in the first place. I rarely do. We have a sort of bare minimum relationship that keeps us from tearing out each other’s throats. I always manage to say the wrong thing to him, when I let loose.

I hop out and grab the heavy, peeling-leather suitcase I thrifted last weekend, which seems to weigh as much as me, despite being filled by very little. Just a couple plain tees and a couple jeans...but mostly school clothes. By the time I have my bag in my hands, hoisted awkwardly in front of my face, I begin regretting never having gone to a gym in my life. I hear an engine rev and a telltale skrrrt across the asphalt. Upon peeking out from behind the clunky mass in my possession, I see the family Honda zooming away. My father is so sweet, so sentimental. Hmph. Time for me to get going, too. I about-face on tripping feet and scurry towards the entrance elegantly as I can. If I believed in God, I’d pray that he keeps everyone outta my way so I don’t bump into them. Cuz I sure can’t watch my step...I’m just focussing on not dropping this thing. It’s a damn box with a handle that does no one any good...it feels like my wrists will snap clean off when I hold it the way you’re supposed to. 

I keep stumbling forward inelegantly, and to my great fortune, I manage not to trip in front of alllll those eyes. But my luck apparently ran out, because once I get to the biggest hurdle (the stairs, duh!)...some punk snatches my bag! Like, what the fuck! Is this guy HERCULES or WHAT? He clearly LIFTS, unlike me, because he just single-handedly HOISTS my luggage right outta my unassuming arms. 

He says something, but I don’t hear it through the ringing in my ears. All I see is this football-built, suave-looking dude smirking at me...like he’s feeling smug or some bullshit. He looks like a total rich bitch prince charming: slicked up black hair combed to the right, annoyingly symmetrical and chiseled face with a square jaw, well-maintained dark brows set over these eyes that are incomprehensibly blue, and perfect “I have a dermatologist” skin with just a hint of tan. I can feel my face heat up, partially on account of how STUPIDLY good this jerk looks...and partially because I’m already getting fucking bullied and like?! Aren’t we supposed to be adults?! 

And now I’m giving him exactly what he wants, blushing like some dumb damsel, some lil dweeb who can’t fend for himself. Cue nervous tic: that damn giggle of mine. The one that always gets me into trouble, the one that gets me cut up. I reflexively clap my hands over my mouth to stifle it, but of course it just doesn’t work and I just look increasingly like I’ve got more than just ONE screw loose. 

And here I was saying that I didn’t wanna attract alll those eyes. I’m sure I am, now. The guy’s smile falters a little, his eyes widen a bit and he glances around as if he doesn’t know what to do. Neither do I, dumbass! 

My father’s voice pops into my head, yelling at me to “Show em who’s boss, Jack.” Before I know it, my hands are whipping switchblade from my pocket right at the guy’s face. His eyes cross to stare at the rainbow sheen. 

Aaaand then he’s babbling something panicked, gesturing with surrendered open palms. Just like that, with his simple, shrill plea for mercy, a woman’s manicured hand manifests outta the blue. It’s firmly placed on my shoulders, and I smell her overwhelming rose perfume as she practically looms behind me in all her high-heeled authority. 

I suddenly realize that what flies down in my lil ol ghetto high school in the NARROWS? Sure doesn’t fly in a swanky academic establishment such as this one. Duh! But well, my heart was pounding so bad and I sort of just panicked! I mean come ON, back home, if you didn’t show the person bothering you who’s boss RIGHT AWAY, you’d get eaten alive. 

Here, assertive displays such as mine just get you sent to the principal’s office, evidently. Because that’s what I’m told by Ms. Appears Outta Thin Air. Greeeeat, just great. I’m always late to figuring out exactly how on earth I’m supposed to survive in any given place. Seems I never get the last laugh. But oh well...I let her confiscate my knife (though I feel practically naked knowing I have nothing sharp on my person at the moment) and let her cart me away from Mr. Tall Dark and Scared Outta His Mind. 

I comply with everything, telling her my name when it’s asked, but I’m still super dazed...and trying to figure out what really just happened. But suddenly! So very suddenly, as if by divine fucking intervention...I’m being turned back around. Because that bougie brat is calling after us, saying I’m his ROOMMATE.

And holy shit. That means he’s...Bruce Wayne. THE Bruce Wayne. The one I stayed up researching the moment I found out HE was my roomie-to-be. Oh c’mooon just look at him! The spitting image of Boy Number One, atop that buzzfeed listicle on The Hottest “It-Boys” of 2019. Ohh Jack. You goddamn idiot. I’m sure I’m in for it, now. I’m so sure. Some divine intervention this is. It’s no miracle, this is God smiting me on the spot for my stupid misdeeds.

But hold up! Wait a damn minute! Something bizarre is going on. He’s saying...saying he wants me to STAY with him. He says he feels bad for misleading me about his intentions. Says he refuses to let the school just give him a new and less temperamental roommate. 

And I swear, my whole chest blooms with heat. And the scaryass, floweryass lady is gone. And we’re alone again. Me and...Bruce Wayne. Or at least, it feels as if we’re alone, even as streams of students skirt around us with a wide berth. We’re in our own bubble. 

He’s looking at me with this dopey breathless expression: wide eyes, cheeks slightly flushed, lips parted as his chest heaves a little. And I decide I LIKE Bruce Wayne. Total 180, I know. But there’s something so very STRANGE about a prissy prep like him wanting to give ME a chance to stay in his NEW GODDAMN HOME! Me, the greasy little twink that threatened him at first sight. Hah! Now that’s funny. Maybe life’s letting me have the last laugh after all. Maybe I CAN come out on top for once, maybe this whole shebang is a miracle after all. Just kidding, of course. But this SURE will be interesting. 

I force myself to be polite for the first time today, and offer to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you...Brucie,” I say, nickname slipping out my mouth. He’s just so FUNNY and ODD, I can’t help but feel waaay too comfortable around him. I can tell that his whole suave shtick is just so fake! We’re...more alike than we seem. I know it. That makes no fucking sense, seeing as I just met him. But I feel it.

He firmly squeezes my hand back, and my palms suddenly feel a little too sweaty. My heart stutters and I restrain the urge to flinch at it. Instead, I open my mouth and apparently, decide to uhh...tell it like it is. “So…that was a mistake, you know that right? I JUST threatened to stab you. And yet you HELPED me… So I could STAY in your room??" 

And Bruce? He just smiles so slightly, yet so genuinely, eyebrows bunched up like he’s a bit embarrassed. He just SHRUGS and turns to walk back to where we left our luggage atop the stairs. Back to business, just like that.

Dear God, if you're out there, against all odds...why him? Why am I so lucky to get HIM?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting so patiently for this! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the differences between the two POV's and the characters' voices.


	3. Notice!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much awaited update, not on the story, but on the SITUATION

LOVELY READERS! I am so sorry, but I loved this story's potwntial so much I decided to scrap this iteration. Now, before you punch me, please realize this means I'm making a new and LONGER, version. The new story will be called The Kill Jar. If you don't know what that is, google the term, it has to do with insects. All my chapter titles have been insect related, so I ran with it. The plot will be the same, but with an added focus on Jack's backstory. It just got too long for me to incorporate it the way I had planned, and I fell in love with the characters who take part in it. Hence, we'll be following Jack's college journey from the start, meaning from before college. Yes, you will get to know how he got those scars much sooner than originally planned. And yes, this story is now more Jack-driven. The narration will be third person, though, enabling me to jump sround character perspectives more efficientely, and to give more of a feeling that this is an actual novel. I'm really excited because I already have three chapters. But! They need to be thoroughly beta'd and proofread before I post them. I'm taking this more seriously than before. Believe me, I sat down with a friend to talk through the WHOLE revamp. Anyway, stay tuned. Thank you for your patience. It is very difficult to write in college, especially when you have fatigue problems!

As before, the request for betareaders still stands! 

Bonus fun fact: I'll be making a bunch of content to go with the story (I mean, I already have been since the start of DGWH), and already have a soundtrack for it. So, I'm thinking of making a tumblr for posting the art and other extras.


	4. Sneak Peek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is at all enticing!  
A description of Jack Napier from the perspective of his childhood friend Jeannie. A snippet of chapter 1.

No one looks at Jack and actually GETS him the way Jeannie does. He is a waifish boy with a sharp and faintly freckled face, wreathed in too-long auburn curls, with the slouch of a gangly height he hasn’t quite grown into. His only remarkable features are a pair of bright green eyes, catlike and glinting with both the lethal distance of distrust and the boundary-crossing gleam of mischief. Well, his only remarkable features alongside his wide, alternatingly exuberant and CUTTING smile...but not everyone gets to see THAT. His thin lips usually rest in a fairly pleasant, placid, deceptively neutral line….deceptive, given the fact Jack Napier has never felt neutral even ONCE in his life. He wouldn't know the meaning of such a word.

He may not be known for his looks, but people (at school, at the family butcher shop, in his small three person home) look at him and see certain characters they’ve grown accustomed to: the ever-giggling and unknowable class clown, the teacher’s-pet science geek, the sullen butcher boy in his stained apron, or the disappointingly effeminate yet still-dutiful son. But Jeannie sees a more complete picture. She sees that he is all these people and more. He is JACK, and she expects him to be nothing more and nothing less. He is playful, he is volatile, a dreamer and a schemer...a heart that WANTS and WANTS and WANTS...hands that endlessly design and endlessly create...Jack is a storm.


	5. NEW FIC UPLOADED

Hello readers! The new version of this fic is now up! Now go read The Kill Jar~

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to beta read my work...lemme know. We could even trade, who knows!


End file.
